


Buns, Ready to Bake

by AdelineAround



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arctic Hare Connor, Body Worship, Bottom Hank, Break in Character, Breeding, Breeding Kink, Bunny Hank, Creampie, Kissing, M/M, Mating Press, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Top Connor, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 16:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16519964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelineAround/pseuds/AdelineAround
Summary: Hank has never been one for fresh veggies... save for the exception of Connor’s big, fat juicy carrot.





	Buns, Ready to Bake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raaawrbin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raaawrbin/gifts).



> This fic is inspired by Robin’s Bunny Hank AU. Any and all inaccuracies or mistakes are mine.

Hank Anderson has never been one for fresh veggies.

Cucumbers, to him, are slimy, disgusting; too squishy in the middle and bitter when something that green should be savory and crunchy. Cauliflower gives him the bloats. Bok choy is bitter by itself. Even the brightest of orange carrots do not look appetizing to Hank, though everyone believes that Holland lop bunnies, and rabbits in general, _love_ carrots. 

They are, he supposes, just not his thing.

Which is how the breeding mill gets him every time. 

Hank is drawn to the sweet smell of dried oats and apples when he hops into the cleaned, all too familiar chamber he is assigned to. His stomach rumbles, a craving for that crisp, apple-y goodness settling in the pit of his belly. His hanging ears swing as he bounds right for the food, eager to retrieve that sustenance before any other bunny does.

In the back of his mind, he knows this is all a bribe for what is to come next, but Hank cannot care less at this moment. He is tired, hungry, and more than willing to trade his pride and the next thirty-one days for a taste of heaven. He will feast before the unfortunate inevitable happens.

Without grace, Hank digs into the oats and apples. He moans in bliss when his teeth sink into the meat of the fall fruit, savoring each bite of sugary ecstasy. Flavor bursts upon his tongue as he chews well, nibbling oats in between the apple. The juice from it flows, dripping from the side of his mouth as he continues to chow down. Hank closes his blue eyes in bliss; almost misses when another body enters the room.

Hank pays not a damn, finishing his food in complete silence as the other bunny, he assumes, stays where they are, observing him. He takes his time, treating this somewhat like his Last Supper.

In some ways, it is. After this, Hank will be required to carry a litter to term. His health, vitals, every movement he fucking takes is monitored by the breeding mill physicians. He hates it, in a way, for it limits him from just _enjoying_ life with his new babies. He does not even get to keep them; Hank hates to see it like that, but it is the sad truth of living in a breeding mill.

He should be proud to be chosen, his friends say, but Hank would rather graze grass and sleep all day than worry about the buns in his oven. He could care less for this life.

“Excuse me,” The suitor picked out for him sounds less macho and more respectful than the previous one. 

Hank’s nose twitches, but he does not say a word, instead turning his head so he can scan his eyes over his mate for the night. He munches on the rest of his oats as he looks.

This one is unlike any Hank has ever been paired with; too handsome for words, and void of clothing, to throw in an extra ten points. His partner is, by far, the prettiest, a soft yet angular face and long, _long_ legs. His brown eyes are wide and bright, and Hank swears he can see his reflection in them. Straight, upright ears are perky and pristine white, dipped in ink black at the very tips. A tuft of fur, brown like the hair on his head, grows between his pectorals. It looks silky soft, well groomed.

 _Lepus arcticus_. This arctic hare- that’s what he is- is an adonis compared to Hank. 

Immediately, Hank frowns. 

“They really got it in for me this time, huh?” 

He ignores his partner’s inquiry completely, instead scratching at the bottom of his now-empty bowl. He huffs out a laugh; suddenly, he is overwhelmed with a sense of exhaustion. He would love to go back to his own burrow, and sleep for the next twenty hours. Breeding tonight be damned. 

“I regret to say that I do not understand,” the arctic hare cocks his head at Hank. If a question mark could be made from air, it would be painted and plastered to the hare’s face in bold Comic Sans font.

Hank sighs. “How long have you been here?”

“Here?” he asks. 

“In the mill.” Hank elaborates, “How long have you lived at the mill?”

The hare shrugs, looking down at his feet. Never mind his nudity, to which Hank _refuses_ to look further down than his navel.

“I came here two weeks and five days ago,” the hare answers. “I do not mind it much. It is the right season, and I can make money this way.”

Hank scoffs, “Right season? To make money? That has got to be the weakest reasoning I have ever heard.”

Hank’s partner looks conflicted by the sudden bitterness, but does not address it. He shifts to the side, eyeing the bedding that is laid out for them across the chamber. 

“I won’t be here long,” he says. “I just need to accomplish my mission. When my mating season is over, I will return to the bay.” 

Hank sets down his bowl, no longer interested in trying to avoid the other rabbit in the room. He makes his way to the bedding, testing out the cushioning with a foot before collapsing upon it. The mattress dips low, as it is made with a type of airy foam that will more than likely be tossed after tonight, but Hank could care less. It feels so much better than standing; he is not a young thing anymore; just young enough to be kept for breeding. He _hates_ to think about that. Throwing a few provided blankets around him, Hank rolls to his side, placing himself in recovery position, as it is easier to breathe this way.

“Will you tell me your name?” The arctic hare is speaking again. “They gave me no information beforehand,” _They_ being the facilitators at the mill.

God, Hank thinks, will he ever get a break to sleep?

The Holland lop kicks one of his legs up to release some tension in his back, but mostly because he is being disturbed. “Hank,” he finally responds. “My name is Hank.” 

“Well, Hank, I’m Connor. I think now would be the optimal time to get started,” says the hare. “Do you mind if I join you on the bed?” 

Hank lifts his brows at the sentence. He has never had anyone ask for permission before. 

“What the fuck,” Hank says, and the hare visibly flinches. “Why the hell not? Climb in. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

It is true; Hank has nothing to gain, nor lose from here on out. He has gone through too many of these nights to have any expectations or high hopes. The purpose of this night is to sleep with the chosen partner, receive, and then never see them again.

Cautiously, _Connor_ approaches the bed, sniffing around it first. Hank rolls to look at the hare, watching Connor closely as he makes sure that the bed is secure. Only after does he finally settle down next to Hank, careful not to accidentally make physical contact the Holland lop. He is unsure whether or not to touch Hank, seeing that he is currently surrounding himself, although poorly, with three blankets. He is not-so-subtly possessing the bed as his territory.

Connor stares at him.

Hank closes his eyes then. Damn this arctic hare and his good looks. That chocolate brown gaze will haunt him when they are done and Hank has gone back to his burrow. In the back of his mind, he knows that he will be thinking about this meeting for weeks on end.

A hand comes out to cup his cheek then, and Hank is suddenly pulling the blankets off the bed, sitting up and shying away from Connor. He glares at the hare, still wary of him.

Connor puts his hands up in surrender. 

“It’s okay, Hank,” he says.

“Don’t,” Hank begins, nostrils flaring.

But Connor is slowly approaching him. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he reassures in a calm, sincere tone. With his knees, he crawls slowly, approaching Hank centimeter by centimeter.

 Hank can smell the calming pheromones emanating off of Connor, grimacing when it infiltrates his nostrils, seeping through his olfactory involuntarily. He feels himself beginning to relax; Connor stops advancing when he is about half a foot away. _He is not a threat_ , Hank’s mind supplies him with the thought.

“Hank,” Connor calls, lowering his hands. He puts them in his lap as Hank’s nose twitches. “Hank.” Again, he attempts reaching out, not quite touching the Holland lop, but close to.

It is like everything is playing out in slow motion, dragging on as if they were underwater. Connor’s fingers travel through the air, pausing just a little bit when they finally meet Hank’s bearded jaw. When the Holland lop does not pull away, Connor continues. With precise motions, he scratches right under Hank’s chin, feeling the slightly scratchy beard there. 

Hank curses inwardly, but allows himself to be touched. Surprisingly, it feels… _nice_ , nicer than when he scratches at his beard himself, anyway. He hates how good it is; Connor knows just where to itch, fingers working like magic in, over and around Hank’s beard. He wonders what else those fingers can do.

And berates himself for it. Hank should not be thinking about this. He is not attracted to the arctic hare.. is he?

 A purr rumbles out from his throat when Connor angles his hand, changing the trajectory of his chin scratches.

 _Oh, damn him_ , Hank sighs as his locked muscles begin to loosen, body physically relaxing from the stimulation Connor gives him.

“Good boy,” Connor cooes, voice so low that Hank strains to hear him. A beautiful smile graces his face, and Hank hates that he almost melts at the sight. “Will you let me get closer?”

“Will you let me sleep after?” Hank retorts. He is not exactly opposed to Connor touching him; not after he has asked so nicely.

Connor chuckles lightly, his hand moving from Hank’s beard. It travels slowly, so mindfully as Connor makes his way down to trace a thumb over the Holland lop’s jugular. 

“You know, that’s not how it works, Hank.”

Hank knows; this is all too familiar to him; mundane, if not for the change in partners each time. He glances to the side until Connor grips his beard _hard_ , yanking it so Hank hisses in pain; he sends daggers Connor’s way when blue eyes meet brown.

“Let me show you a good time,” Connor whispers, his gentle touches fading into more intent caresses, strength present in their hold. “Or I’ll make sure we both don’t see the light of day tomorrow.” His words are clipped, stone cold and hard.

A shiver runs down Hank’s spine. He gulps audibly, still not trusting enough to say anything yet. 

Connor releases Hank’s beard, stroking down and over the bunny’s clavicle. “So what do you say, Hank? Will you breed with me?” he asks, back to his normal tone of voice.

The others have never done something like this; Hank is overwhelmed with conflicting uncertainty and curiosity. What would it feel like to let Connor take control? Would it feel good for once? Would Hank enjoy it? Would it be enough to break his brain? Change his view on the breeding mill? Hank hopes not, but still wants a go with the arctic hare, he finally concludes. Connor’s juxtaposition of behavior- gentle one second, rough and determined the next- kindles a small, instinctual flame that burns in the pit of Hank’s core. If Hank is going to be bred tonight, he wants only Connor to do it.

“Yes,” he finally draws out of his mouth, breath whistling through the tiny gap between his front teeth.

Connor’s face turns as smug as a cat that has got the cream, if only for just a moment. He leans in, face so close that Hank has to catch himself from flinching.

“You won’t regret this, Hank,” is the last thing Hank hears before soft, plush lips descend on his. 

They kiss, soft and chaste at first. Hank squeaks in surprise when Connor cups his face with both hands, guiding them so they can slot their faces one against the other, granting better accessibility without the hassle of noses bumping painfully into one another. The friction of skin on skin is exhilarating, their lips moving together, then separately, over each other without much of a rhythm to tango to. 

Then, it is when Connor’s tongue slips out to lick at Hank’s kiss-swollen lower lip, only retracting to nip at the flesh, as if asking for permission to slide inside. Hank presses himself closer; the rest of his body on the arctic hare’s when Hank finally unlocks his jaw to welcome Connor into his mouth.

Both tongues graze over one another, licking and twirling and _teasing_ like a game of chase and tag. They writhe from one hot cavern to the next, grinding over flat molars, strong calcium teeth before tracing over soft, slick gums. They take turns feeling over the soft, pulsing veins along the underside of each tongue, collecting the slick there when pressure is applied to the salivary glands.

Hank is the first to moan, the sound coming from the utmost guttural part of his larynx. It takes Connor and him by surprise, forcing them to break the kiss in order for Connor to smile at him. They connect their mouths once more, Connor echoing that sound when Hank flicks over the roof of the hare’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. 

Connor begins to claw at Hank, sharp talons coming out to play and prick along Hank’s thin tee shirt. They are careful enough not to puncture any fabric or skin, but enough to make Hank’s breath hitch in the tiniest way. It does not hurt, rather stoke the fire in his middle; it travels downward, snaking a burning train down south towards his nether regions. Hesitantly, he lays his hands on Connor’s shoulders, feeling how strong, solid as steel, they are.

Connor rumbles from his chest, an appreciative groan slipping from their locked lips, when Hank explores the hare’s incredibly sturdy back, drawing invisible shapes around where the muscle bunches from Connor’s current position. None of this helps Hank’s arousal not to flare, and he squeezes his eyes shut when the arctic hare lets go of him in favor for lifting the hem of Hank’s shirt. 

“M’ahh,” Hank breathes as warm hands place themselves on the two upper quadrants of his middle section.

It feels amazing when they travel up, nails dangerously circling over the sensitive skin at his chest. They slide through the silky fur growing between his large pectorals, fingers stopping to flex in them, as if kneading them. Hank lets out a shaky exhale.

 “Soft,” Connor comments, plucking some of the loose fur that Hank has yet to groom out. He drops it, watching the little puffs of silvery-white float to the bed like down feathers. 

It is hard for Hank not to lean into the touch; he has not cared about his appearance or wellbeing for months. Connor’s motions are swift, the plucking only slightly uncomfortable. Connor looks at him before nudging Hank’s shirt to his armpits, getting a front row seat to full view of Hank’s very prominent bust.

Hank wets his lips, suddenly embarrassed to be on display for the arctic hare. He lowers his head, floppy ears brushing over his wide shoulders.

Suddenly, he is forced onto his back, piledriven onto the mattress like he weighs nothing but a couple of green sprouts. Air rushes out of his lungs, the force so overwhelming that Hank has nothing to say, even as Connor’s deft fingers rip and tear at his thin shirt. Shreds of the fabric are flung to the floor, away from Hank’s body, as if they are offending Connor by merely existing.

The look in the hare’s eyes are enough to scare Hank; rabid, dilated pupils reflect almost ruby in the dim lighting. However, with the touches that contradict the dangerous look in Connor’s eyes, Hank can feel his blood rush south, down to his nether regions, where his cock begins to twitch in the confines of his threadbare boxers.

A dangerously hot mouth comes down to encase one of Hank’s round nipples. 

“Haa-fuck!” cries Hank, involuntarily arching into the touch. 

A groan comes next, rumbling deep from his bosom and out his throat. If Connor could, he would smile, if his lips were not already around Hank’s nipple. His scorching tongue comes out to play, grazing along the plate-like size of it, then around the base of Hank’s areola. Closing his eyes, he relishes in the grooved texture of the nub, noticing the way it begins to erect; becoming perkier with each pass of his tongue. His hand travels to the other nipple, as not to neglect it. Connor pinches it none too lightly, rolling it between two digits when Hank hisses at the touch.

Hank tilts his chin forward, eyes taking in the unbelievable sight of Connor suckling on his nipples. He can feel his cheeks becoming hot with arousal, and he wiggles his hips a little, desperate for some much needed friction.

A whine widdles its way from the back of his throat when Connor slides a thigh between his legs, body strong and unyielding as he prevents Hank from moving further. The arctic hare releases his now swollen teat with an audibly wet pop. 

“No, you don’t.” His face is frighteningly serious, but his leg moves up and down, rubbing against Hank in a much-needed way. 

“Please,” slips from Hank then. His capillaries seem like they are working overtime, veins burning with a produced combination of fear and stimulation.

Connor shakes his head, smirking smugly for only a moment. Then, it is gone. He redirects his lips to the middle of Hank’s chest, stuffs his face into the white fur growing there, then licks a trail lower; down his sternum, briefly over his xyphoid process, his diaphragm, and his navel. His eyes stay trained on Hank’s, watching him closely as the man’s rough pubic hair scratches at Connor’s chin.

Oh god, Connor is getting so close to Hank’s need. The Holland lop groans breathlessly, unable to stop Connor. He cannot say anything as Connor’s sinful mouth turns into a frown at the boxers still adorning his hips. Quickly, Connor rids him of his bottoms, shucking Hank so fast from them that Hank would be concerned if he was not so presently horny. The article of clothing goes flying off into the distance of the chambers thereafter.

“C-Connor,” A niggling tendril of anxiety squirms in the back of Hank’s mind when the hare takes a good look at him. More specifically, take a good look _at Hank’s cock._

He wants to cover himself up, beg Connor to move onto something more interesting other than his average member.

“Beautiful,” Connor murmurs, just loud enough for Hank to hear as well. He stares, tongue coming out to wet his lips. 

No, it’s not, Hank wants to say, but he never gets a chance to; Connor closes the gap between them to suck the head of Hank’s cock.

“ _Ah_!” Hank all but shrieks at the unannounced pleasure that Connor delivers.

The arctic hare chuckles. Connor slurps at the tip of Hank’s cock then, bobbing his head to take more of the length into his mouth. His devilish oral muscle flicks at the underside of it, outlining the vein that resides there. Sliding back up, he dips the end of his tongue into the slit, tasting the salty precum that pearls there.

With a breath in, Connor challenges himself to take in all of Hank’s cock; he dives deep, engulfing that ruddy dick within his throat without an ounce of resistance…

And stays there, ignoring the itching sensation that makes him want to gag and choke. When Connor brings himself back up, Hank is panting hard, not believing what he has just witnessed. Connor goes again, until his nose is at the base of Hank’s cock, and he struggles to sniff in the sweet musk that is coming off the Holland lop in wafts.

Hank moans, pushing weakly at Connor’s shoulder with a trembling hand.

“I… I’m not going to make it,” Hank says when Connor gets the message, letting up and unsheathing him completely. The air is bitterly cold around him, but he chooses to ignore it, knowing that this night is far from over.

“Then I will administer something different,” Connor speaks as two warm fingers come up to circle around Hank’s furled entrance.

Hank gulps, nodding. The touches are feathery light, but he knows he wants more. He knows that _Connor_ wants more, too. Spreading his legs, he gives Connor access to his hips, hands coming down to hold his voluptuous ass.

“Mmmm…” That seems to ignite a spark in Connor’s eyes as they zoom in on what is between Hank’s thick cheeks. 

He brings them down, getting to his elbows as his hands place themselves atop of Hank’s, stretching them further back, so he can see the pink jewel nestled between those two globes of creamy ass.The musk is so much more prominent here, and Connor nearly salivates at it. It is as if Hank is inviting him in the form of intoxicating pheromones. 

He is drawn to the little rose bud called entrance, mouth steadily just above it. And then Connor takes a tentative lick.

Gasping loudly, Hank tries to pull back at the first touch of Connor’s tongue to his ass. However, the arctic hare holds him in place with incredible strength, keeping him there as he presses his tongue further into the bunny. He licks hard and fast, not sparing a second for Hank to get acquainted, adjust to the feeling that racks his brain with confusing nerve signals.

Connor licks into Hank without grace, delving deeper and deeper until one of his fingers comes to play at the edge of the Holland lop’s passage. Before Hank can protest, Connor sinks the digit alongside his tongue.

Hank squashes the scream that threatens to escape. The intrusion is so abrupt; it is uncomfortable as both tongue and finger go in, then out, and back in again deeper. He so desperately wants to shift his hips, get into a different position, but Connor is too strong. Another finger is added to the mix, stretching Hank further.

This time, Connor decides to scissor them, holding open his entrance for a second or two so he can lick Hank’s insides. It is so strange, but Hank focuses on the dull burn that comes from the motion, instantly soothes by the hare’s pink muscle that darts around his hole.

 It is only when Connor adds a third finger does his tongue let up in favor for actually opening Hank up. Instead of teasing, like earlier, he opts for a more direct action, spearing the bunny on his digits with enough force to have Hank moaning. The ministration seems to loosen him up just enough that the three fingers can enter without much resistance, though it is still too dry for Hank’s liking.

“C-” He swallows, trying again, “C-Connor,”

Allowing Hank to push him away, Connor draws back in favor for raiding the bedside table and its shallow drawers. Inside, he searches for a small, plastic bottle, labeled in small print that might be hard to read, if not for his sharp vision. He takes it back  with him to Hank, kneeling between the bunny’s spread legs. Hank tenses when he hears the faint pop of the bottle’s cap, knowing full well what is going to happen next.

“On your stomach.”

Hank hears the command, but is not sure his legs have the capability of moving right now. He tests them, but they feel like wet, cooked noodles, flopping back onto the bed from their weight. With a dissatisfied grunt, Connor brings his hand down on Hank’s ass; the sound of freshly slapped flesh filling both their ears.

“I said, on your belly,” Connor growls, hands coming to grip Hank’s sides.

His nails bite into Hank’s skin as he handles Hank roughly, moving him and turning him until Hank finds the willpower to get up on all fours. He keeps himself on display for the arctic hare, but lets his front sink to the mattress below. His throbbing cock dangles between his thighs, looking more like decorative mistletoe than his sex with how flushed it has become. Hank can already sense his body reacting to the pretense of passion when _something_ alarmingly slick and blunt lines up against his puckered hole.

Connor sighs long and loud as he sinks into Hank’s awaiting heat. The Holland lop’s walls part so easily for him, yet grip him like he is coming home to a much-needed embrace. Inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter, Connor slides in. He then ruts forward, then back a tick, before pressing twice the amount back in, until he is sheathed to the hilt within Hank.

The sheer girth of it is enough to send Hank reeling, and he barks out a very low, “Fuuuck.”

  
“Shhh,” Connor strokes up and down the bunny’s sides, feeling the fur towards Hank’s armpits tickle his knuckles as they slide over perfunctorily. “Relax.”

With a great amount of concentration, Hank focuses on doing just that. He makes a conscious effort; the walls of soft muscle loosening around Connor’s cock ever so slightly. It does not sting so much when it is like this, to which Hank is glad, but the dull burn still stays around his rim. 

“There you go,” Connor praises him, and Hank _breathes_. “It’ll feel good soon.”

Hank’s hands fist in the sheets around them as Connor begins to move; his teeth bite into the fabric, as if to find purchase to a ride that has barely begun. The length within him slides out slowly, allowing him some relief, until only the tip of Connor’s cock is still lodged within his passage. Then, the hare ruts back in, the motion rigid, like it has been fueled by eagerness; excitement. Hank pushes his hips back in panic, trying to lessen the impact, but ultimately making it just that more intense.

With a muted groan, Hank takes a palm to keep Connor back a bit when the arctic hare pushes in _deep_ , striking something within him; it tickles his lower abdomen, shoots passion up his vertebrae, muddles his brain and its processing functions.

“N- ahh,” he stops himself, trying to get a grasp on something, anything, to keep him grounded. 

But there is nothing but Connor, the bed and the air around them, forcing Hank to take and handle all the repercussions. With a particularly hard thrust, Hank nearly falls on his face, both hands on the bed now as he tumbles forward. The pleasure runs so deeply in him when that sweet spot is brushed over, and Hank _hates_ that he cries out for more.

“Please,” Hank mutters, so low that Connor’s upright ears tremble to hear it.

“What was that?” Connor asks, pistoning his cock yet again, this time driving directly for Hank’s wonderful bundle of nerves called prostate.

“Mmnnff,” the Holland lip groans.

Connor smirks, but does not let up from his thrusting. “I can’t hear you, Hank,” he cooes cruelly.

A keen comes from Hank’s throat, heat blooming just under his dermis. He chews at his bottom lip as more moans sound from his voice box.

Finally, he enunciates with a high whine, “Please, Connor.”

Connor smiles wide and, though the Holland lip cannot see his face, Hank can _hear_ it as he hums, “You want more, Hank? You seem to like it when I press up against _here_ ,”

A gasp escapes Hank’s bite-swollen lips as Connor grinds the head of his dick against Hank’s sweet spot like he was always meant to. Hank throws his head back at the sensation, eyes slipping shut so all he can do is receive, take and feel everything that Connor is giving him. He squeezes his ass around the cock within him, gripping Connor like a vice.

 “Less talk, more do,” Hank is able to grit out. 

It is only then that Connor realizes there is something wriggling, slapping just underneath his belly button. He looks down, tongue sweeping over his mouth like a predator about to devour his prey.

“As you wish,” the arctic hare voices his compliance.

And then he is reaching for Hank’s little nub of a cotton ball tail, taking it between three fingers and rubbing firmly.

“Aah!”

It is like lightning has struck him from below, striking through his body so quickly that Hank barely has time to voice anything before it is sizzled out by soft mewls.

Once again, Connor’s thick cock bullies into him over and over. In and out. Hard and harder. They start an organized rhythm, harsh pants following muffled moans. It is intense; Hank is not sure if he has felt such pleasure before. Connor is extraordinary, giving him so much, too much, yet not enough. He wants to cry, wants to sob, because there is just _a lot_.

 “Connor!” he finally screams, angling his hips so his neglected cock can get some friction from the sheets below.

 He ruts in time with the arctic hare, body on autopilot, the mission clear and simple: reach orgasm, and have Connor come in him. Hank’s cheeks would blush red if his whole face was not already. He is flushed with exertion, rolling back his ass into Connor’s strong groin.

The slap of skin against skin surrounds them, a racket of noises that spurs both Connor and Hank on. Shifting his weight, Connor pulls out of the Holland lop, earning a frustrated whine. Not for long, though, because Connor is flipping Hank over, impatient as he lays Hank out supine, slotting between his legs as if he is coming home.

And, in a sense, that is not too inaccurate. When Connor forces his way back in, the sudden emptiness that Hank has been feeling inside is suddenly gone, crushed with the force of the arctic hare’s grand re-entrance.

Hank’s legs are pulled then, so far back that his knees are almost at his head. Connor lies on top of him, struggling for balance as he lifts himself, only to drop his cock back into Hank’s clenching hole.

They are in a mating press, Hank seems to realize all too late.

Oh, oh fuck. Oh shit. Hank wails as his passage is pummeled into. Connor clings onto him, grunting away as he fucks Hank with renewed vigor. He can feel each slide over his prostate, knuckles blooming white with how hard he is holding the sheets. There are stars in his vision, a multitude of colors popping in his peripherals like fireworks, but without the loud, terrifying noises.

 No, this is far from terrifying. This is _exhilarating_.

Hank is not sure what is talking more, the endorphins, the oxytocin, the testosterone, the estrogen, the vasopressin- all of that, he is not sure- but he feels _amazing_. He craves _more_ , body moving on its own to meet Connor halfway. He barely registers when Connor’s talons scratch ruby marks into his ribs, instead crying out with passion as the hare does so.

Then, Connor hunches, lips open and wet with saliva. It is an invitation, presented so openly that Hank cannot say no to it. Connecting their lips, Hank and Connor suck at each other’s tongues, kissing to the pace of which Connor presses into Hank’s tight heat.

It becomes a mess of swirling together, their bodies connecting as one the entire time. It is like their own secret song through sex: Hank moaning each time the head of Connor’s cock kisses his pleasure zone, and Connor huffing through each plow inwards. The loud squelch of their joining bodies adds a reverb, their exchanged breath as hi-hats to their instrumentals. They rock together on the bed, becoming lost in their motions, until Hank does not know where he ends and where Connor begins.

 But pleasure is cresting within him, and he is not sure how much more Hank can take. He throws a hand up over his forehead, feeling the sweat that runs there. His eyes become unfocused, hazed over with lust. His body thrums with the urge to come, to release, and hopefully to have Connor come inside him…

 A sharp-tipped hand comes down to Hank’s weeping cock. Connor strokes him with diligent moves, paying attention to the purpling tip. Hank slaps his hands on Connor’s back, the pleasure so great his eyes are starting to cross. 

“I’m going to come,” Connor hisses suddenly, turning his face to suck biting kisses into the column of Hank’s neck. “Where do you want it?” When Hank begs him silently, the hare continues, “Use your words, Hank.”

Hank shakes his head, too embarrassed to vocalize his desires.

Connor does not buy it, however, pausing his hand on Hank, raising his eyebrows expectedly at him. Propelling forward, he keeps at Hank’s ass, wiggling his hips ever so slightly. He grinds until Hank cannot handle it any longer, a long keen whistling from his mouth.

 “I… need,” Hank begins, but the words are getting mixed in his larynx. He tries again when Connor does not react. “I need you…”

“Need me where?” Connor thrusts again, aiming for Hank’s prostate.

 Hank cries out, but Connor resumes his thrusting, going back to the brutal pace that they had built up just moments ago. The pleasure mounts upon itself, but not enough to make Hank come, much to his dismay. 

He cannot think anymore, too caught up in his own passion to orgasm. His shame gland is ripped from him when Connor strikes the raised bundle of nerves, sending pleasure up his spine.

His mouth starts babbling, “In me, in me, Connor. Come inside me.” His eyes roll in their sockets when Connor lets out a territorial rumble, still piledriving Hank.

“ _Shit_ ,” Connor groans, teeth now digging into the meat of Hank’s shoulder. “You want me to..?” he asks, but it comes out more like a statement.

Hank is nodding frantically, throwing his head to and fro, his ears flopping in every which direction as he screams from the stimulation.

“Yes.” His eyelids flutter, pale lashes sweeping over his high cheekbones. “Breed me, Connor. Fill me up. Make me spill out.”

Orgasm hits Connor so hard that he bites down on the juncture of Hank’s neck, enough to break skin. Rivulets of red carnelian run from the puncture spot, the sharp iron flavor invading his taste buds. He moans, rapture overtaking him and his body, tremors racing from his toes to his scalp.

Hank gasps when he feels Connor fill him, wet heat rushing abruptly into his passage. It sticks to his walls, shooting into him in spurts. And, with that, it is enough to send him spiraling into ecstasy. 

Coils of hot white release, bursting from the seams. White gains color from the light spectrum, taking the rainbow with it and painting the prettiest mosaic in the dark of Hank’s rolled-back eyes, like a flurry of fireworks in the dark night sky. Like the universe's stars are erupting, exploding instead of imploding, leaving Hank incinerated from the pleasure. His mind is muddled, brain on cloud nine, drifting ever-so-slowly back to earth.

They stay like this for a while, Connor licking long, flat strokes against the wound he made on Hank. The weight of the arctic hare is welcoming, and he relaxes, drowsy and nearly drifting off to sleep.

“Thank you,” croaks Hank after a while.

Connor lifts his head, a small smile gracing his face. “What for?”

“For…” He sighs, relishing in the full feeling that he has deep in his passage and his belly. “For this. I’m glad it’s over.”

 He isn’t, not exactly. Hank knows he will be missing Connor as soon as the hare leaves the chambers. With just this meeting, Hank never wants to part from Connor again. He feels almost reluctant to know this information.

Hank tries to push Connor away then, but Connor does not roll off Hank. Instead, he smiles wider, and Hank can feel the hare’s cock hardening between his legs.

“Oh, Hank, baby,” he says, pink tongue grazing over his teeth, gleaming white as snow. “We’re just getting started.”

Hank reminds himself to thank whatever gods are looking down upon him.

**Author's Note:**

> Give kudos and comment if you survived the fic. If you didn’t, give kudos and come scream at me @ra9sthiccbicc on twit


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